Entering the great Rotunda, we stand before the most sacred locality in Christendom—­the grave of Jesus.  It is in the centre of the church, and immediately under the great dome.  It is inclosed in a sort of little temple of yellow and white stone, of fanciful design.  Within the little temple is a portion of the very stone which was rolled away from the door of the Sepulchre, and on which the angel was sitting when Mary came thither “at early dawn.”  Stooping low, we enter the vault—­the Sepulchre itself.  It is only about six feet by seven, and the stone couch on which the dead Saviour lay extends from end to end of the apartment and occupies half its width.  It is covered with a marble slab which has been much worn by the lips of pilgrims.  This slab serves as an altar, now.  Over it hang some fifty gold and silver lamps, which are kept always burning, and the place is otherwise scandalized by trumpery, gewgaws, and tawdry ornamentation.

All sects of Christians (except Protestants,) have chapels under the roof of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and each must keep to itself and not venture upon another’s ground.  It has been proven conclusively that they can not worship together around the grave of the Saviour of the World in peace.  The chapel of the Syrians is not handsome; that of the Copts is the humblest of them all.  It is nothing but a dismal cavern, roughly hewn in the living rock of the Hill of Calvary.  In one side of it two ancient tombs are hewn, which are claimed to be those in which Nicodemus and Joseph of Aramathea were buried.

As we moved among the great piers and pillars of another part of the church, we came upon a party of black-robed, animal-looking Italian monks, with candles in their hands, who were chanting something in Latin, and going through some kind of religious performance around a disk of white marble let into the floor.  It was there that the risen Saviour appeared to Mary Magdalen in the likeness of a gardener.  Near by was a similar stone, shaped like a star—­here the Magdalen herself stood, at the same time.  Monks were performing in this place also.  They perform everywhere—­all over the vast building, and at all hours.  Their candles are always flitting about in the gloom, and making the dim old church more dismal than there is any necessity that it should be, even though it is a tomb.

We were shown the place where our Lord appeared to His mother after the Resurrection.  Here, also, a marble slab marks the place where St. Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, found the crosses about three hundred years after the Crucifixion.  According to the legend, this great discovery elicited extravagant demonstrations of joy.  But they were of short duration.  The question intruded itself:  “Which bore the blessed Saviour, and which the thieves?” To be in doubt, in so mighty a matter as this—­to be uncertain which one to adore—­was a grievous misfortune.